Nick shoved aside a laundry cart and sprawled on a folding chair at the back of the laundromat. His body hurt like a motherfucker. His face wasn’t much better. Everything ached. Head. Heart. Dick.

Especially dick.

He’d been ten seconds and another tongue flutter away from an insane orgasm and bam, nothing. Jazz had yanked away from him so fast he’d been stuck using that baby oil last night anyway, and not to come. She’d left teeth marks in his flesh. She could’ve maimed him for life, and he hadn’t even gotten his rocks off.

Not that he was thinking about Jazz today. He’d stuck her in a big black box in his head labeled do not touch.

Now…this. A video of them on YouTube. One that was actually being watched, not dying in obscurity like every other half-assed thing they’d ever done.

Excitement trickled through him, cutting shallow swaths through the pain, but he wouldn’t let it through. He preferred to hurt. At least he could trust feeling bad. Feeling good never led anywhere but to disappointment.

He clenched his hand around his phone. He’d clicked off the video site, afraid to believe what he was seeing. Who were all those people causing the numbers to jump? What the frick was going on?

God, he wished he could call Snake. His rehab place limited contact with the outside world, especially people identified as potential enablers. Since the band was basically a walking excuse for addiction, Snake had put him and Simon on the Do Not Call list. He hadn’t bothered with Deacon, knowing he would never contact him. Deak wasn’t all that understanding of Snake’s issues.

Or mine.

Nick rubbed his scraped cheek. Maybe he should borrow Deak’s phone and reach Snake that way. It didn’t seem right not to at least give him a head’s up about the situation. He’d be out of Sunshine Pines or whatever the joint was called in another month or so, but that was practically a lifetime away. If somehow he heard they’d replaced him, even temporarily—

The door to the Fluff banged open and Gray strode in, flashing a smile at the woman rocking a baby near the first bank of washers. She smiled back, turning toward him with obvious interest.

Nick sat up straighter while he waited for Gray to respond. Gray’s smile widened but he kept walking past the young mother. Aiming straight for…him.

Just who Nick wanted to talk to on the day after he’d gotten his ass kicked—the guy who was, at the very least, in unrequited love with the girl who’d blown him last night.

It better be unrequited.

Almost as soon as the thought surfaced, Nick scowled. Gray and Jazz’s relationship issues were not his problem. She was a cute girl with a memorably strong grip and a mouth that could put any upright vacuum to shame. Though he didn’t know her well, she seemed nice enough. What was between her legs was even nicer. She was also extremely talented and not showy about it. But she was definitely not his problem.

“Hey.” Gray came to a halt in front of him, his eyes wary. He set his guitar between his sneakers. They looked brand new. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?” Christ, had Jazz spilled about last night? No, that didn’t make sense. If she had, Gray would’ve led with his fists, not polite conversation.

Then Nick remembered his face. And his body.

He shrugged and slouched down into the hoodie he’d pulled on after his shower this morning. The heat was already building outside, which meant it was inside too—thank you, lackluster A/C—but he’d wanted something comfortable. He’d actually been tempted to pull up the hood and sulk all day like the dumb piece of shit Simon had accused him of being last night.

So far he’d avoided taking any pain relievers. He had a feeling that streak was about to come to an end.

“Your face?” Gray prompted at his silence. “Were you in a fight?”

“Not with Jazz,” Nick tossed back, then realized the ridiculousness of that reply. Jazz wasn’t much bigger than one of the laundry carts. She couldn’t have put a hurting like that on him even with the help of a pair of brass knuckles.

“About that.” Gray pulled out the chair next to Nick and carefully laid down his guitar. He didn’t sit. “I talked to her this morning.”

Nick schooled his face into casual lines and tried to ignore the buzz that zipped up his spine. She wasn’t even here. He’d be damned if his palms went damp just at the mention of her—and the memory of everything they hadn’t finished. “So?”

“She told me she’d lied about you touching her last night.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. She explained about the guys at the Rhino. She’s right. I have a temper, especially when it comes to her.”

Just what Nick needed to hear when he already had a busted face and a guilty dick. Did such a thing exist? If not, he was going to coin a new phrase because his had just shriveled up in his boxers. “Yeah, I get that you two are…close.” He wasn’t fishing for info. He didn’t care. Not even a little bit.

“We are. Really close.”

Sometimes direct was best. Besides, he had to know if Jazz had just fed him a line of crap. “How long have you been together?”

Gray frowned and glanced away before his gaze came back to rest on Nick’s forehead, never quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve known her since she was thirteen. I’m a year older. She was my foster sister. Her home situation wasn’t the best, so she came to live with my family.”

“Oh.” Momentary sympathy for Jazz snuck in before he considered the rest of it. That was a kinda creepy setup for unrequited lust. Flowers In The Attic for the non-related set. “So you’re not dating?”

“No.” Gray ground his molars. “Not technically.”

Nick kicked back in his chair and studied Gray while Gray looked anywhere but at him. He almost felt sorry for the guy. If he hadn’t ever experienced Jazz’s oral talents, he was seriously missing out.

Then again, this was probably why he had never had a platonic female friend. The concept keep it in your pants just did not compute in Nick’s world.

Gray obviously wanted Jazz and for whatever reason, she didn’t feel the same. Or else she didn’t get that Gray wanted her that way, so she hadn’t examined her feelings. Whatever. Yet Gray continued on that doting path of being her pal-slash-bodyguard without complaint.

Unless there was some on the down low friends with benefits stuff going on…

“How about un-technically?” Nick ventured. Just making conversation is all.

Gray gripped the back of his neck and stared up at the spiderweb of cracks on the ceiling. “No, not at all. She doesn’t see me that way. I’m like her big brother.” The tight smile on his face proved exactly what he thought of that assessment. “You know, number one douche role.”

Nick cracked his knuckles, anything to alleviate the silence between them. In a second he’d start humming. He didn’t like the lost expression in Gray’s eyes, not one bit. It wasn’t his place to feel sorry for the dude. Definitely not right for him to commiserate, even if he’d never felt that particular emotion before. He’d never wanted someone he couldn’t have. Had never wanted anything that much but his number one lady, music.

Though lately she was being pretty damn fickle too, come to think of it.

Nick cleared his throat, then cleared it again. At this rate he’d start wearing away his vocal cords soon. “Well, just so you know, I don’t lay hands on a woman. Ever. I may be a first class asshole but even I have standards.” Obviously not many, though he wasn’t about to go to confession to Gray.

“Yeah, I hear you. I’m sorry for accusing you. It just makes me crazy when I think about anyone hurting her. She’s the most important person in my life.” Gray exhaled and rubbed his hand over the back of his longish, spiky hair. It sprung right back into place. Had he used shellac instead of gel? “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. We’re just trying to do the same thing, aren’t we?”

“Don’t think so, no,” Nick responded under his breath.

Gray didn’t seem to hear him. “We both just want to play. It’s about the music, man, not us. And after what happened last night—”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

Gray frowned. “I meant how we nailed the show. You have to agree?”

“Oh. Yeah. We nailed it.” God, he needed to take another shower and cold-soak his tired brain. He couldn’t deal with this crap right now. He’d worry about his limp penis and his irritation and his guilt some other time.

“There were some stumbles at first, but we got it together. The YouTube thing proves it. We’re going to have to figure out how to get along, and I’m man enough to step up to the plate.”

“Bully for you.”

Gray folded his arms across his chest. Either last night’s beating had knocked some clarity into Nick’s head or he hadn’t looked close enough before, but the guy had some serious muscles. That sealed it. He wasn’t going within fifty feet of Jasmine Edwards—and her magic lips—ever again. He’d wear a snowsuit around her if need be. Anything to ensure she couldn’t touch him.

Or look at him. Or even breathe in his general direction, since he was almost sure just the scent of her fruity gum-scented breath could get him hard.

“You’re not going to make it easy on me, are you?” Gray asked tiredly.

Nick blinked. Gray had a vague halo around him, thanks to the jab Simon had delivered to his eye. Blinking again didn’t help. Figured.

He was hurting and pissed. And horny. All things considered, he really didn’t feel like being sociable. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to make an effort.

Well, maybe it would. But he’d do it anyway. He’d fingered the guy’s girl to near unconsciousness last night. He could at least try to be charitable.

“I have no beef with you, man Honestly. This situation is just awkward.” Nick winced. Understatement of the century. “Oblivion’s drummer…former drummer,” he acknowledged, “is a close friend. All of this is just temporary.”

Gray’s mouth firmed into a hard line while he tapped out the beat of his impatience on his forearm. “You just said former and temporary in the same sentence. Which is it?”

“Temporary. Snake’ll be back. Sorry.” Nick shrugged.

“No, I think your friend Snake is the sorry one, because he wasn’t on stage last night and Jazz was. She’s the one in the video. The one they’re already drooling over in the comments.” From Gray’s tone, he wasn’t too pleased about that.

Nick frowned, his thoughts sliding together like tectonic plates. Rubbing over each other but not quite locking into place. “Wait, a second. You know about the video? The hits?” What were they saying about Jazz?

He wasn’t jealous. That would be dumb. He knew more about her lips than her personality. When he thought back about his dating history, that wasn’t all that unusual.

Yeah, he was a prick.

“Why else do you think I’m here? Band meeting.” Gray quirked an eyebrow at Nick and took a seat at the table as the door to the stairwell banged open and voices poured out. Deak and Simon. Lovely. “Didja think I’d come by to chat?”

No, to kick my ass. I’ll show you which cheek is available. The rest has already been spoken for by Bret Michaels’ fraternal twin, Simon Suck Me Off Kagan.

Rather than say any of that—or grumble about the band meeting he didn’t know anything about—Nick just slouched into his chair and thanked God Pink and Perky hadn’t showed. Small favors.

“Good. Everyone’s here.” Deak stopped at the table and rubbed his hands together. Then he frowned. Maybe Nick’s fist had caused some brain damage. “Wait a second. Where’s Jazz?”

“I’m here, sorry!” At the high, feminine voice, Nick pulled up his hood and tightened the ties. He still saw a flash of pink-and-purple hair done in some wild style. She was so bright he feared retinal detachment just from looking at her too long. “My shitbox car broke down again so I had to call in to work. Stupid tranny—” She broke off, and Nick guessed she’d realized there were other people in the laundromat who weren’t hungover and/or beat-to-shit musicians. “Oops, sorry,” she muttered, her voice way too close.

Then she pulled out the chair closest to Nick and he groaned. Not under his breath either.

Dammit, why did she have to sit next to him? He wasn’t exactly in fighting form. If Gray launched an all-out attack, he’d end the day spooning up applesauce and drinking mashed potatoes through a straw.

And he. Hadn’t. Even. Gotten. To. Come.

“Hi,” she whispered to his hood.

Nick bobbed his head in pithy acknowledgement and hoped he’d wake up dead.

A second later the room exploded with sound, courtesy of Gray. “Okay, what the hell is this?” he shouted, apparently unconcerned about the other patrons.

They really needed somewhere else to practice.

Cautiously, Nick pushed back his hood. If he was going to get his block knocked off, he wanted to at least be prepared. But Gray wasn’t looking at him. He’d turned Jazz’s face to the light and was tracing his fingers over the long slash down her cheek she hadn’t quite covered with makeup. She grimaced and pushed Gray away.

Nick frowned. “How’d you get that?”

“That’s my question,” Gray muttered. He leaned a hip against the table and gestured to Simon and Deak, who both had taken up the fascinating hobby of staring at the floor. “Something happened last night. I went to work after the show. Where did you guys go?”

Where did Gray work in the middle of the night? Since that wasn’t an appropriate response to the guy’s question, Nick remained silent. So did everyone else.

“Goddammit, something happened. I don’t believe for a second that you all got in separate fights. Jazz?” Gray asked, his voice so soft and pleading that Nick shut his eyes and jammed his knuckles into his forehead. He couldn’t believe he felt guilty. This wasn’t his fault. He didn’t owe anything to Gray.

Goddammit.

When no one spoke, Nick shoved to his feet. He wasn’t going to sit there and choke on the tension in the room. Even if he’d helped cause it. “I need air.”

“Yeah, well, you should’ve thought of that before.” Simon leaned across the table and used one bony finger to shove Nick back down in his chair. “Gray, it has nothing to do with the band, okay? You’re right. Some shit went down last night, but it’s over.”

Crickets again.

“Isn’t it over? Nick?” Simon pressed.

“Yeah.” Nick stared at the table and refused to look at Jazz. Her hot gaze bored into his neck but he’d be damned if he let any of this derail his focus. She was a sweet piece of ass and a kickass drummer. They needed her—and maybe they even needed Gray. Temporarily. But that was as far as it went. “It’s over.”

Jazz made a strangled sound in her throat and crossed her bare legs. She’d worn a sundress today, all ruffles and flounce, with a short denim jacket and cowboy boots. The bizarre ensemble fit her somehow. “Whatever.”

With that rousing proclamation, Deacon ran through for Gray and Jazz again how Simon had heard about the video being put up on YouTube from Trevor, the Rhino’s bartender. Which naturally led to the crazy amount of hits, still continuing to climb, and what that meant for their shows that week at the Rhino. Setlist changes, encore material, general chaos. Nick tuned it all out until Deacon shared what he’d saved for last.

“Just before I came down here, I got a call from the GM of Frenzy.”

“You serious?” Simon slapped his hands on the table and weaved forward. Even all messed up, the douchewaffle was still pretty. “We’ve been knocking on their door for years.”

“Tell me about it.” Deak smiled. “They want to book us next Sunday night. There was a cancellation, and they heard about us this morning. They want us. If we nail that show, they’ll give us another in a couple weeks—but only if we’re flawless.” Deak’s smile grew. “So we’re going to be.”

“We’re scheduled at the Rhino Sunday,” Nick muttered, well aware no one was listening. Not that he’d been in on the discussion to set up that show either, but at least Deak had informed him that morning about the wheeling-and-dealing that had gone down with Phil last night.

It was official—Nick had become a third-wheel in his own damn band.

“Not anymore we’re not. I just called Phil and he let us back out of Sunday if we picked up the next two Thursdays instead. So I said yes.” Deak crossed his massive arms and cut a sharp glance at Nick. “Problem?”

When Nick didn’t reply, Deak added in a brutally quiet voice, “We have a new guitarist now, you know. So if you decide you’re expendable…”

“Temporary guitarist,” Nick gritted out. “He’s only here as long as she’s filling in for Snake.” He jerked a thumb at Jazz without looking at her. He didn’t trust himself to. “Don’t forget that.”

“Regardless, he has no problem playing when we need him to. Gray?”

Gray nodded and looked sideways at Jazz, who was studying her manicure with obsessive interest.

“This is our chance. We’re going to take it.” Deacon reclined against the wall and let his gaze rest on each one of them, saving Nick for last. Naturally. “If any of you have something to say about that, now’s your opportunity. If you don’t, we’re starting rehearsal in five minutes and we’re going to kill it at our next show at the Rhino. Then we’re going to do the same thing at Frenzy.”

Silence reigned. Then Simon stood slowly, his hand cupping his ribs. He slipped his Taylor over his neck and settled into one of the bucket chairs. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

His guitar was going to strangle him.

After years of playing with the same damn strap, all of a sudden it was too tight. Nick shifted it up and down, trying to find that groove in his neck it settled into all on its own. He rolled his shoulders and tried to block out the murmurs of the growing crowd beyond the curtain. Since last weekend he’d been consumed with this moment—they were at Frenzy, for cripes sake—but he didn’t have to worry about the people out there yet. Maybe ever, if he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t get his guitar on right.

“Need some help?” The throaty question made him jerk off the strap and bang his guitar against his toe. Smooth. Jazz laughed and leaned her head on his arm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You okay?”

He grimaced and scrunched his bruised toe in his sneaker. “You didn’t scare me.”

“Right.”

He drew in a breath and cast a quick glance around them. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him and Jazz. A small crowd had formed around Simon—shock and awe there—who was regaling his serfs with tales from the night before. He mentioned something about triple teaming and Nick tuned him out. The last thing he wanted to hear was more reminders of all the pussy he wasn’t getting.

Especially when the woman he wanted was smiling up at him like he’d just shoved a sparkler up his ass and set the world aglow.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nick muttered, taking a step back.

She followed, that secret smile of hers widening. She lifted up on her tiptoes—sans her shoes, since she’d already lost them in preparation for the show—and whispered against his chest, “Let’s go somewhere.”

Oh fuck no. Was she insane? Gray was right there. Nick glanced around the insanity that was backstage before a show. He was around somewhere.

“Come on.” She shifted in front of him and cupped his cock through his jeans. “I still owe you one, babe.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He fought to put steel in his refusal but it was sorta hard. Forget sorta. It was harder than the concrete supports that held up the stage. “Look, that was a mistake. We gotta focus on the show.”

“No, you have to focus on me, so you can get through the show.”

“What?” he asked, sure he’d misheard her.

“You can’t freeze again tonight. And I want to help you if I can.” She tossed a quick glance over her shoulder then glanced back at him, her big eyes bright and steady. If this was about anything but lust and helping out a friend—were they friends?—he couldn’t tell. The glaze of desire in her expression sure didn’t look like pity. “I know I can, if you let me.”

Swallowing hard, he reached down to grip her hand, knowing he was going to hell. Hoping that at least he’d get to come first. “So what will I owe you then?”

She shrugged and gave him her usual mega-watt grin. Her miniature drum-and-cymbals earrings clinked together as she tilted her head. “To play your ass off. No more. No less.”

Some part of him still wanted to explain about the stage thing, to dismiss what she’d seen. What she just might see again tonight. He wasn’t going to let anyone feel sorry for him. But he glimpsed the way out on her face, and he had to take it.

She’d figured out his secret. She understood. And he wasn’t strong enough to say no.

Wordlessly, he set down his guitar and dragged her across the stage as fast as he could considering he was still healing from last weekend’s brawl. They ended up in some random storage closet. It wasn’t smart, because the guys would start tuning up soon, and he and Jazz wouldn’t be able to hide their exit from the closet. But he couldn’t wait. Couldn’t think. He was shaking with the need for her, for another chance. His body still ached from the beating he and Simon had put on each other, but he could barely feel the residual pains through his urgency.

If anyone could heal him, it was Jazz and her supersonic mouth.

The instant the door opened, she dragged him into the forgiving dark. Where they were all alone with the hunger that made their mouths clash together with enough ferocity to light up the night.

He stabbed his fingers into the mile-high bun she’d fixed on top of her head, wrecking the orderly curls, tearing them down while his tongue plunged between her lips. She moaned, loud and sharp, not tempering the sound. And he feasted on it, on her, sucking on her tongue, nipping her lips, swallowing that same grape-sweet taste she’d tormented him with before.

“Want me to go down on you?” he whispered between kisses. It wasn’t an offer he made often, though he had a feeling she’d be the exception to all of his rules.

She shook her head, hard and definite. “No. Just fingers. Please. Like last time.”

They didn’t speak after that. Didn’t do a damn thing except kiss and touch and pant hotly into each other’s mouths. Just like last time, she stroked his cock like she was manipulating her drumsticks. Up, down, up, down, squeezing, letting go. Over and over until he shoved her back against the wall and pushed his hand under her skirt. All he could think about was getting into her slick pussy.

She wore panties tonight, tiny frilly ones, and he ripped them aside and surged his fingers deep. She threw her head back, banging her skull. He pulled out and rubbed her piercing, amazed all over again that such perfection existed in his world. The memory of those pink crystals around her taut little clit could take him straight to heaven. But he wouldn’t go alone.

He spent extra time toying with the studs, testing her reactions to each flick and flutter. Building the urgency between them until they both trembled like plucked strings. Then he was playing her flesh like she’d played him and all he could hear were her ragged gasps, each of them ending on a single plea.

More.

More.

God, give me more.

She came in a pulsing gush against his palm, and he groaned as he dropped his forehead into the crook of her neck. Her brown sugar scent and the smell of her arousal wrapped around him, constricting his lungs, blocking his airflow. Then she dropped to her knees again and pulled down his zipper, taking him out so fast he couldn’t do more than pant his gratitude. Her lips closed around the head of his dick and he fisted his hands against the wall, one of them still soaked from her, lost to the sensation of her wet silky mouth riding up and down his length.

It didn’t take long. She remembered what he liked, and he’d been primed for the past week. He hadn’t let himself come on his own, knowing he’d see her behind his eyes. She’d be the cause of his orgasm even if he was all alone. So he’d held back, held off, somehow knowing they’d end up in this place again. His own touch would never be a decent substitute when he could have her.

At least he had her right now.

When the door opened, they’d take their places on stage and it would be all over. But in here, in the dark, they were the only witnesses to their crime that wasn’t.

He came deep in her throat and she didn’t balk at taking him that way. If anything, she drew on him more strongly, coaxing out every drop as he shuddered and gasped. He ground his hips into her face and she didn’t do anything but invite him to do more.

More.

Fucking give me more.

Still shaking, he didn’t move when she sidled up his body to press her lips to his chest. Somehow he felt their dampness even through his cotton T-shirt.

The room stank of sweat and sex and he couldn’t even be sure it was just theirs. Didn’t want to know. Words failed him. Utterly. All he could think to say was, “thank you.” Over and over, like a prayer.

“You’re welcome. Now you’re going to pay me back, right?”

His deflated ego started coming back to life just from her breathless question. She chuckled, then he did too.

At least one part of him didn’t get stage fright.

“You know it.” He smoothed his thumb over her cheek and she released a soft sigh. “Every song tonight, Jazz,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly thick. “Every one I play, it’ll be for you.”

Though he couldn’t be sure in the crack of light coming under the door, he thought she shut her eyes. He slid up his hand to check and her tangled lashes fluttered under the pad of his thumb. Like a butterfly kiss.

“Then you better not mess up, Crandall.”

He dropped his head back and laughed, more relaxed before a show than he’d been since—

Ever.

He’d never felt like this before he took the stage. Relaxed, loose-limbed. Ready to rock. To blast the rafters off the joint.

And it was all due to her.

“I won’t, baby.” Using a handful of her ass as a lever, he edged her to the door in front of him. He couldn’t stop his sigh. What he could do with her if he had more time. “I’ll be too busy thinking about removing your piercing with my tongue.”

Laughing softly, she opened the door and stepped out. He grinned and reluctantly pulled his hand from the sexy curve of her hip. So not fair.

Then he glanced at the stage.

Gray was standing directly across from them, his axe across his chest like a shield. His eyes accusing.

Jazz tightened like a bow before she launched herself toward the man who loved her. Maybe hated her now, if the look Gray wore meant anything. Her small hand crept up Gray’s chest as she whispered to him. Whether she offered an explanation or an apology, it didn’t have much visible effect. Gray’s face had turned to granite, incapable of showing any emotion but the fury that burned in his eyes like a smoke signal.

When Gray turned away and stalked off the stage, she chased after him without looking back.

Nick walked over to grab his guitar, his eyes shutting the instant his fingers brushed the smooth wood. That brief high was fading, dwindling to nothing, but he clutched it with both hands. No. Fuck, no. She’d given him something he wouldn’t waste.

He just hoped like hell she didn’t pay a price she hadn’t anticipated.

Fifteen minutes later, the curtain came up. Simon pranced forward, his bruises and pain forgotten in favor of the showmanship that was as much a part of him as his skin. He catcalled to the audience, getting them riled up. Making them want it. Him.

They strummed their way into “The Becoming”, the song that had ripped everything open last weekend. Nick breathed in and out, letting the muscle memory take over. He had one thing to do tonight, and that was to play. Nothing else existed.

Gray wasn’t staring him down with enough hatred to make his guitar spontaneously burst into flame. Jazz wasn’t pounding her way through the song so seductively that he wished he could turn around and take her against the kit. Simon wasn’t parading around like he was the main event at a strip joint—and wearing just as few clothes—and Deacon wasn’t looming behind him, a silent, threatening presence warning him he had no missteps left to make.

It was just him and his guitar. And his band.

His fucking band.

By the time they lined up for their bows after an abbreviated encore, his body was so sore that even walking hurt. Sweat dripped down his back, from his temples. The roar of the crowd rang in his ears, filling his brain until it squeezed out everything. He took his usual position next to Simon and clasped his best friend’s shoulder, sharing a grin with him that might as well have been a fricking kiss. He was so elated he might’ve laid one on his buddy if Jazz hadn’t slipped up beside him and grasped his cheek, turning his face to hers.

“You did it,” she breathed, grinning with him. For him. “I knew you could. You were amazing.”

Then her warm, wet lips were on his and he didn’t give a shit that people were watching, that he’d probably wake up in traction after Gray lit into him.

It was all worth it.

Jazz pressed close as they made their way backstage, laughing and shouting and slapping hands with everyone who crossed their paths. An image of Snake, his bald dome sweaty as he whaled on the drums, popped into Nick’s head and was just as quickly dismissed. Now wasn’t the time.

It didn’t take Nick long to realize Snake wasn’t the only one who was missing. Gray had disappeared.

In the center of the pandemonium backstage, a guy in a trim brown suit cornered Deacon. He was smiling widely and gesturing. All the while, the crowd continued to scream on the other side of the curtain.

They hadn’t filled Madison Square Garden—yet—but they’d done okay. Better than. They’d done amazing.

Deacon turned away from the guy in the suit and motioned to Simon, then to Nick and Jazz. If he or Simon had noticed the way he and Jazz were wrapped around each other, they hadn’t given any indication. Gray still hadn’t reappeared, and Nick didn’t miss the little glances Jazz kept sliding toward the back exit. But she also didn’t leave his side, and for that he was eternally grateful. He needed to hold on to her soft, curvy body just a bit longer.

Especially when Deak introduced them to the guy he’d draped one of his gigantic arms around.

“This is Jackson Miller.” Deak smiled like he’d won the frigging lottery. “He wants to talk to us about recording a song. For a fucking soundtrack.”